by Greg Kincaid
Emily began to whimper. “Mommy, don’t cry.” Abbey raised her arms out to the children. She needed to hold them close, to reassure them.
Emily ran to join Abbey on the couch, allowing herself to be enfolded in her mother’s safe embrace.
But Keenan jumped up from the table and ran back to his bedroom. As he slammed the door to his room, the entire house shook.
Like most small towns in Kansas, Crossing Trails didn’t offer a lot of choices when it came to renting an apartment. In fact, there was only one choice: a first-floor unit at Hickory Ridge.
Todd and Laura talked over the pros and cons of Apartment 3A in the hall outside the manager’s office for more than a few minutes. It was all moving faster than they expected and not in the traditional progression that Laura would have preferred. This was a big decision, one they’d been privately mulling over for a while, well before today, and a commitment on lots of levels—but the lease made it more real. Laura had been living in a small house with a friend who was now engaged to be married. With Todd moving back into town, both of them had to find a place. Apartment 3A was fine; they liked it. The question was, separate or together? If Laura took the apartment, Todd would have to move back in with his parents. Same thing for Laura. Neither one of them thought that moving in with parents was a good idea. Finally, the couple walked back into the manager’s office, holding hands, beaming with pride. Todd looked first to Laura and then back to the manager, before saying, “We’ll take it.”
Laura paid the rental deposit, Todd paid the pet deposit, and they both signed the lease. A week after they moved in, together, while still unpacking boxes, Laura asked Todd, “Have you told them?” She knew the answer, but framing it like a question seemed polite.
Todd answered, “Not yet, but I will.” He reached down and coaxed the morning paper from Elle’s mouth. With the dog’s face cupped in his hands, he stared into her gentle brown eyes. He shifted her face back and forth vertically as if to signal his disapproval. He then asked her, “Do you have to eat Laura’s paper?”
Todd put the now-damp, gnawed newspaper on a small end table by their sofa. “I need to ask Dr. Welch why dogs like to eat paper.”
Laura tried to get Todd back on the subject she wanted to discuss. “It’ll go better for us both if you just tell them.” Elle jumped up and put her paws on the edge of the table to support her weight. Her head cocked sideways and, like a surgeon coaxing a splinter from a child’s finger, she gently worked the paper toward the edge, using her nose to scoot it. Todd stopped and watched her. “Look at her. That’s pretty amazing. Even with those short legs, she can really stretch out…can’t she?”
“Todd, she’s not supposed to have the paper. Remember?”
He gently snapped his fingers together, as an indication that he was about to issue a command. “No. Elle. Sit.” When she was in position and focused on him, he said, “Come.”
Elle tended to waddle when she was excited or having fun, her back end swinging to and fro like a horse trailer being pulled too fast on a winding gravel road. But when she suspected she was in trouble, as now, the dog moved slowly, hunkered down like a stalking cat. Her body language said, I’m not perfect, but I’m trying to be good.
When she stopped in front of Todd, he spoke firmly but reassuringly so that she knew she was safe—a little naughty, but safe. “Good girl. Now, just lie down and behave.” He used his hands in a gesture that looked like he was compressing trash into a garbage can. “Stay.” Todd finally turned his attention away from Elle and tried to respond to Laura. “It’s not a big deal. Is it?”
Laura wasn’t so sure about Todd’s conclusion. “To them it’s a big deal.” She thought a bit longer before adding, “I guess to me it’s a big deal, too.”
“Why is it anybody’s business where we live and who we live with?” Todd more concluded than asked.
Laura reached down from her spot on the sofa and touched Gracie’s white coat. “I will feel better if you tell them. Besides, I told my parents.”
Laura had been with Todd long enough now to know and understand that he processed problems in his own way. Slowly and cautiously. But eventually he got the job done. For three years she’d withstood the stares and the whispers from her old classmates, now grown to adulthood like her, the same people who had once derided and ridiculed a boy with limitations and who did not yet grasp the man he’d become. To them she had dared to challenge some unwritten law. A smart girl falling in love with a not-so-smart guy.
In the beginning she felt the need to build Todd up in the eyes of others. Brag and point to his accomplishments. Justify. Defend. It wore her out. She got the script down, for herself and for everyone else. “I’ve never met anyone that I admire more. He loves me, and I love him. My world is a better place with him in it.” After a while she realized that she just sounded defensive. She loved him. That was as far as she felt the need to go. If other people didn’t understand what love meant, that was their problem, not hers.
This decision to move in together had been hard. Neither Todd nor Laura realistically expected parental support. Laura’s parents hadn’t exactly given it. As for the McCrays, as far as Laura was concerned, George and Mary Ann continued to coddle Todd. She knew that when Todd decided to return to Crossing Trails to take the job as shelter manager, they’d assumed that he would move back in, next to them, in their old rental cabin, which they called Thorn’s Place, down the road. On the phone they’d reminded Todd that they’d kept it cleaned, furnished, and unoccupied by tenants. Laura thought they viewed Todd’s time at Heartland as some kind of interlude, as if their son were just taking a vacation and would come home one day to live out his life near them. Laura adored Todd’s parents, but they didn’t seem to realize that Todd was a grown man and past living in their shadow. Besides, however quaint and cozy it was, Laura had no desire to live in Thorn’s Place.
Laura’s own parents were guarded about Todd and at times critical and limited in their support of the relationship. When she told them that she and Todd were moving in together, her mother had started the conversation with “We know that you and Todd have a very special relationship.” Laura was insulted by their use of the word “special” and blurted out, “Maybe we can borrow the short bus from the school district when we move his things.”
Her parents struggled to walk the line between respecting Todd’s dignity and expressing concerns about him as a long-term partner for their daughter. “Laura,” her dad had said, “relationships can be hard. They work best between equals.”
Laura put an end to the conversation. “Don’t worry. Todd has never once looked down on me.” Laura knew that her parents were trying to be helpful, but it still felt insulting. She had disabilities, too. She’d been enjoying a respite, a six-month remission, but though she was still in her twenties, her rheumatoid arthritis was so severe that she’d already had both hips replaced. According to her doctor, her knees would need replacing soon, too.
A few years back, when they were just friends working at the old Crossing Trails shelter together, in the middle of a particularly bad flare-up Todd observed that Laura often had a difficult time getting up and out of a chair. He took six months to train a service dog specifically for her movement and stability needs. Calm, strong, and a presence that Laura could literally lean on, Gracie was wonderful, a godsend. There were only a handful of people on earth who could have done that for her—seen precisely what she required and figured it out perfectly. Todd did it.
Over the next few years, she had witnessed Todd’s genius for predicting the mutually beneficial relationships between certain dogs and certain people. Once he sensed canine potential, he would patiently see through his plan, making it happen. He’d done it with Gracie, and then, once he went to work at the Heartland School for Dogs, he did it for a living. And he was very good at it. Every six months the Heartland School graduated another group of dogs. Seeing the gratitude of the new owners and what Todd did with their dogs left he
r shaking her head in amazement.
At the graduation ceremonies, even when she knew it was coming, that moment when each of Todd’s dogs was finally paired with its new owner, she cried with joy. Most people had no idea what Todd could do. They hadn’t seen it. She had. He could train dogs to help their owners dress and undress, turn lights off and on, answer the door, and so much more. As far as she was concerned, it was astonishing to watch. Besides, Todd was smarter than most people realized. In the end he had an uncanny ability to get the important things right.
Now she was hoping that this would be one of those times.
—
Laura finally pushed Elle out of her face. “Enough, Elle. Todd, I would feel better about this if you talked to them sooner rather than later. I feel like it’s kind of hanging out there. And it’s only a matter of time before they figure it out. My parents could easily say something next time they run into yours.”
“Are you saying I should tell my parents for you?” Todd asked.
“Yes, that’s part of what I’m saying. By not telling them, I think maybe you’re not sure that we’re doing the right thing by moving in together. Maybe you’re embarrassed?”
Todd thought for a moment. “That’s not it. I don’t think that.”
“Do you know why you haven’t told them?”
“No.”
“Will you think about it?”
Todd stood up and went into the kitchen. Elle was jumping up against the small trash can, trying to knock it over, so he put it on the countertop before turning around and asking Laura, “If they get mad, what would I do?”
Laura thought about George and Mary Ann. They were extraordinarily dedicated parents and always kind. They got high marks there. She doubted that they had ever been truly angry with Todd. No, she was certain that was not how they would react. She shrugged. “Todd, I don’t think they’ll be mad. Disappointed maybe. But not mad.”
Her trash-can attack foiled, Elle ran back to Laura.
Laura marveled at Elle’s short legs. She wondered if the little dog had basset hound or corgi in her. No, she decided, probably dachshund. Being only a few inches off the ground, with such short little legs to move around on, how did she manage to get into so much trouble? Again Laura pushed the dog away. “Elle, don’t be a nuisance—I’m trying to have a conversation.”
Todd, still in the kitchen, watched Laura for a moment before concluding, “Falling in love is complicated.”
“Worse than math?” she asked, smiling, gently teasing him about his least favorite subject of all time.
“Why might they be disappointed?” he finally asked, opening the refrigerator and staring at the contents before picking up the orange juice.
Laura said, “Come sit next to me.”
Todd gulped a bit of juice from the carton and left the refrigerator door slightly ajar until she reminded him to close it. “You leave that door open a lot, Todd. Maybe you should train Elle to shut it for you!”
“Good idea.” Todd rejoined Laura on the sofa. Uninvited, Elle backed up and ran full speed and took a flying leap. She landed on the sofa and quickly wedged herself between Laura and Gracie, who patiently ignored her canine sister.
“Particularly for parents and older people, there’s an order, or a sequence you’re supposed to follow in life. First you date, then you get engaged, then you get married, then you move in together, then you have children, then you get old together. Then you die.”
“I think that’s what my parents are doing,” Todd concluded.
“Yes. I think so. Mine, too.”
The wheels and cogs clicked into place for Todd. Perhaps slowly, but correctly. “We’re not doing things in the right order, are we?” he asked before pausing, trying to retrieve the correct words. “Out of consequence?”
“Sequence,” Laura corrected.
“That’s right.”
“Why does the order of things matter so much?” Todd smiled, remembering one of the rules from his dreaded algebra class, and finished his point, “Two plus one is the same thing as one plus two. The order doesn’t matter a bit. Right?”
Laura shrugged. “I guess it’s a part of the tradition. You know, like Christmas. First you put up the tree, then you buy the presents, and then, on Christmas Day, you open everything and have a big dinner. That’s part of the fun, following the traditions. If you opened the presents in November, had turkey and dressing for breakfast, and then decorated the tree on New Year’s Day, it wouldn’t seem like a real Christmas, would it?”
“No. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Well, I think that’s how they’ll feel. They won’t be mad, but they’ll worry that we’ve got things out of order and ruined something that might have been better the old way. If we kept things in sequence. Did them as they did things.”
“So they’ll be disappointed that we did it our way and not theirs?”
“Maybe.”
“So I will have to explain that our way was best for us.”
“Yes, Todd. I think you’re right.”
“Laura, thank you for explaining. I feel better now.”
She kissed him softly and pulled him closer. “I love you, Todd McCray. You are the most wonderful man on earth.”
“That makes me happy.” There was a crashing noise as the small coffee table fell to the floor. Todd looked up as Elle ran down the hall with the morning paper in her mouth. He yelled, “No! Elle! No!”
Laura put her hands to her temples. “Elle, you’re impossible.”
There were routines in the Robinson household that had slowly been shifting for the last few months, and the kids, especially Keenan, had taken note. First, their mother turned the sofa into her bed each night and rarely went to her old room except to use the bathroom or get something from her closet. Second, the small television that had been in the master bedroom was moved into the living room and placed on a coffee table. The giant flat-screen that had been in the living room was now in the bedroom Emily thought of as “Daddy’s Room,” with the channel frozen on SportsCenter. The big fifty-gallon plastic trash can from the garage had taken up residence in Daddy’s Room as well, and the space reeked of beer.
Then one morning Link was gone. “Kicked out,” Keenan heard him claim later.
“For his own good,” he heard his mom say into her phone.
Link’s clothes and shoes were out of the closets. The big TV was back in the living room, and the house was clean, put back together. The sofa was a sofa again. The carpet was vacuumed and all the laundry was done and put away. There were only vague explanations provided by Abbey in those early days. “Daddy is on a little vacation, by himself.”
Finally, early one evening not long after Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s house, Abbey told Emily and Keenan to sit on the sofa, without the TV on. She needed to talk to them. She couldn’t put the truth off any longer.
—
At first Abbey was convinced she’d never figure out what to say or how to say it. She was terrified that she would damage their little lives for good. They were so young. Could she dare tell them about their father’s drinking? The truth about their parents’ failing marriage? She didn’t want to lie, but she could see the whole situation play out in her head. She would break down and cry her eyes out in front of the children, and this would only frighten them and make things worse.
This was the hardest thing she’d ever done and she had to do it alone. She asked Link to come over—he was sleeping on a friend’s couch for now—so they could do it together. He was no help. “Maybe breaking our family apart isn’t as easy as you thought it would be. This was your idea. You figure out how to tell them. It’s on you.”
No one would be there to support her or guide her.
Abbey had gone to the library and, with great embarrassment, checked out several books on divorce and tried to study the chapters on talking to children, sitting in her car during her lunch break so no one would see what she was reading. She went online whe
n the kids were in bed and looked up “divorce” and “telling your children.” But none of the advice seemed to fit. Close, but not quite there. She felt as if something both more honest and less painful was possible.
Finally, out of ideas, she decided to call the one woman she knew she could count on to help without judging. Abbey was reluctant to call her. She was supposed to be a capable adult now, not a floundering student. Mrs. McCray had been her guidance counselor in school. But after that they’d remained close friends. If there were Dutch uncles, then Mrs. McCray was her Dutch aunt. Abbey was one of a handful of students whom Mrs. McCray considered to be like one of her own kids, four or five students who’d grown to adulthood and remained in Crossing Trails, keeping in regular contact with their old teacher. Rather than drift off after graduation, they stayed in one another’s lives—now friends.
Mary Ann loved Abbey’s sense of humor, honesty, and mental toughness. She always had a kind word and a warm hug for the young woman. Like Mary Ann, Abbey was a no-nonsense kind of girl—did her work, applied herself, and saw things clearly for what they were. All qualities that Mary Ann admired. Besides, there was no arguing that she and Link had the two cutest children in Crossing Trails. George seemed to like Link, too. When George heard that Link had lost his job, he asked Link to help with the hay. It was hard work that paid poorly, but they seemed to enjoy doing it together.
Mary Ann nurtured her connection with Abbey in all the little ways that matter a lot. She sent her birthday cards, made “thinking about you” phone calls, and showed up at Keenan’s baseball game the first time he pitched. With her own grandchildren hours away, she embraced special occasions with these kids from time to time.
On a quiet, cold morning, Abbey made the call, waiting nervously as the phone rang. On the fifth ring, Mary Ann picked up. “Hello.”
Abbey found Mary Ann’s voice alone reassuring and knew she was doing the right thing. “Mrs. McCray, it’s Abbey.”
